


Sorry

by embittered_ambition



Category: Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins, Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Alternate Universe - Hunger Games Setting, Blood and Gore, Gen, Hurt Peter Parker, Panem, Tony Feels, Tony Stark Acting as Peter Parker's Parental Figure
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-23
Updated: 2019-11-23
Packaged: 2021-02-18 17:13:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21530419
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/embittered_ambition/pseuds/embittered_ambition
Summary: The arena was beautiful. Truly. Perfect gray, cloudy skies. Rolling hills. A soft breeze. It made Peter’s neck tickle a little from his feathery hair.’I wouldn’t mind dying here,” Peter thought, before the gong sounded.A Marvel Hunger Games AU
Relationships: Peter Parker & Tony Stark
Comments: 8
Kudos: 69





	Sorry

Peter opened his eyes. The glare from the sunlight was too intense for a bit.

He squinted, looking around frantically, chest heaving. His fingers clenched; the skin-tight jumpsuit felt uncomfortably thin. A blade could easily pierce the fabric. Maybe it was made that way.

He wanted to cry. He wanted to curl up and hyperventilate. He wanted to run away, die maybe.

Except if he really wanted to die, all he had to do was step off the podium. The resulting explosions would kill you fairly quickly.

Ha. It’d be hilarious if everyone stepped off the podium. Every single contestant. The Capitol would riot.

Fuck the Capitol. 

The reverberating timer ticked down. It was strange. It seemed to pass by ever so slowly, and then a blink later, it would speed up drastically.

You could easily tell those who wanted to be here; those children were staring hungrily at the cornucopia, smirking at the other contestants. Everyone else just quivered, begging for their bodies not to give out.

The arena was beautiful. Truly. Perfect gray, cloudy skies. Rolling hills. A soft breeze. It made Peter’s neck tickle a little from his feathery hair.

_’I wouldn’t mind dying here,” Peter thought, before the gong sounded._

Peter ran, and soon the first scream rang through the cool, fragrant air. If Peter thought hard enough, he could feel the delicate balance of his organ systems. Now more than ever, their place inside his body wasn’t definite. All it would take was a twist of a blade and a sadistic smile, or fearful grimace.

Some wanted to do this. Some did not. Peter belonged to the latter, and all he wished was that he would die from his own grouping. Or just on his own.

Those who liked to kill generally made it very painful as you died.

He made it to the edge of the forest. Peter was certain that those screams would haunt his last few nightmares.

Either a bead of sweat, or a tear, trailed down his face. He was too preoccupied to care.

* * *

Okay, okay, water. That was the first priority, right?

Peter swallowed. His throat felt uncomfortably dry, and he can't help but let out a growl. He stomped through the forest. Red surged through him.

"Damnit," he seethed, kicking a tree. It was barely felt, despite the fact that he should've felt the shooting-through-bone pain that rippled up your leg.

He was too numb for that. Except, well, hatred maybe.

Birds squawked, annoyed at the disturbance. There was a rustle as they all flew away. Peter simply tilted his head and watched.

Peter felt small.

He had nothing. Absolutely nothing but the clothes on his back and his own roiling emotions. Hell, he was going to die.

He was going to die.

Peter gasped, shuddering, and kicked the tree again for good measure. Suddenly hysterical humor bubbled up in him.

"You know," he chuckled; slumping, then leaning against the oak-wood, "This is actually fine. I'm going to be fine. End up dead most likely, but in the long run, fine… probably," he said aloud to no one in particular. 

The idea of death didn't have any permanence. Sure, he was exposed to it pretty commonly. It was normal, even. Public executions were almost daily.

He's seen his own share of blood and gore.

However, it was different when he was referring to… himself. He could joke about it, even think about it without a telltale shiver of dread. It was simply a concept.

Peter didn't fear his own death, only his family's. That's what he told himself. That was the reality of living in District 6.

They were all told that they were rebellious, that it was for their own good to watch as innocents (not in the Capitol's eyes) were brutally whipped and shot.

_This was all a lie though. He didn't want to die, just like most people. He persevered because it was all he's ever known._

Peter paused, snorting, almost losing his train of thought, "Yeah- and Ned, since you're watching, you can keep my wooden blocks. We both know that you love them more than me,"

A thump. Wood chips flew off the sudden blade embedded in the wood.

Peter gulped.

"Shit, you must not like my commentary," he mused, voice wavering. It failed at being utterly apathetic. He pulled the knife out, and began running as fast as possible, "Sorry, I'll try better next time,"

Should he run in a zig-zag? Probably. Though it would slow him down, apparently it reduces of being shot… or impaled in this case, very low. Close to zero, hopefully.

A part of him wondered why he was even running. Should he simply embrace his inevitable death?

Nah, he's too stubborn for that. But the idea has some merits. (Lies)

Crackles of sticks and leaves from behind him was everything. Literally. His neurons fired in tandem with the suddenly-slow steps.

Then everything ceased. It was like the world seemed to tilt around him, frigid fingers grasping at his shoulders callously.

He was pushed down, and he let out a yelp as he face-planted into a rock. Everything grew blurry. Peter was convinced he went underwater for a second.

He groaned, a dull, throbbing, wet pain blooming on his forehead. He tasted copper as droplets curved along the corner of his mouth. His ears rang. 

Peter screamed, bucking the person off of him, struggling fruitlessly, arms thrashing. It was no use. His movements were sluggish. He attempted to swing with his knife, but the girl simply kicked it out of his hand.

He screamed when he heard a cracking noise; the bones in his hand snapping. Pain burned through him white-hot.

"Get off of me!"

His words were slurred, and a female chuckled, sweetly deceptive in its youth, "No," she breathed. Her breath smelt suspiciously of roses.

"No," Peter whined quietly.

_No no no no. May, Ben, please please help please help me I don't wanna die-_

"Goodbye, whatever your name is," the girl said blithely, and then there was a sharp point at the base of his neck.

Peter stiffened. Tears rolled down his face. He didn't feel them, absorbed by the blood as they were.

Then, there was a strange whining noise. It wasn't from her… it was almost like an electronic whir.

Her sickly sweet voice suddenly choked, a gurgling noise escaping her. Peter flinched when the knife slipped, creating a jagged cut on his neck; but it didn't kill him. The girl collapsed atop of him.

Peter let out a sigh of relief, before scrambling back from under her, and then a cannon sounded.

He looked at his would-be killer for a moment.

She was beautiful. Strawberry-red hair, a pale complexion, dexterous fingers, freckles. Her blue eyes were open, glassy. Blood dribbled out of her mouth. There was a circular burn on the back of her head, almost glittering blue where it had burned her hair.

She couldn't have died from a simple burn. Yet there was nothing else there. And the blue… 

He ran, fingers screaming in pain. His other hand quickly grabbed the discarded knives. Rustling leaves swirled around him, the breeze brushing along his sprinting figure. 

* * *

Peter's vision blurred, tilting. Vertigo rushed through him. He gagged, and he would throw up if it was possible. His bile was even dry. The retching only brought up enough to create a film in his mouth. 

He was still stumbling through the forest, despite the absolute ache of his legs, exhaustion swirling into every thought until it was unrecognizable. His throbbing fingers clutched protectively against his chest.

A tree slammed into Peter. He didn't realize that he had tripped into one, and he groaned, trying to push himself up. His limbs trembled.

He collapsed back to the ground with a dry sob. Tears fought to pour out of his burning eyes, yet were held back unwillingly.

He was dead. He was dead. He was going to die.

And yet… despite the crushing terror, Peter couldn't find the will to fight. Every ounce of stubbornness he managed to scrounge was washed away by the pain, by his parched mouth, by the dizziness surging through him.

He didn't get up. 

* * *

Peter's eyes snapped open.

They closed, opened once more, then he screamed.

The kid hovering over him scooted back, hands raised in surrender. There was a flask of… water? sloshing in his hand. A wry grin crossed his face, brown eyes soft, "I'm not going to hurt you, kid,"

"I don't believe you," His voice wavered.

The kid, definitely older, shrugged, "Suit yourself," he took a swig from the flask, and sat down on a nearby log. His feet swung, a little short for the obvious maturity in the lines of his face.

Peter winced as he sat up, and blinked surprised when the usual dizziness didn't overwhelm him. He swallowed. Saliva actually formed.

His fingers didn't shoot unbearable agony either. It was more of a… grate across his joints than his broke breaking anew with each twitch. He raised his arm, and gaped at the contraption wrapped around his hand.

It was formed of a red metal wire, woven into a sort of stitch. It was hard on the places where it mattered, namely the break, but it was flexible everywhere else.

The red glinted a faint gold as he twisted his wrist, gazing at it in awe.

"Why?" he croaked, "Why bother to save me? It would've been better for you if you killed me-

The boy looked faintly irritated, "You're just a kid," he mumbled, and that was confusing. Wasn't everyone here a kid?

"So are you…?"

He waved that off, "I'm the oldest one here, actually. Literally, it was a couple of days before my 19th birthday at the reaping,"

Peter didn't have much to say besides, "That sucks,"

It really did. After all, it was his final reaping until he was all in the clear. And then his name came out of that glass bowl, damning him.

He snorted, and said, "Yep. Agreed," and then he paused, "Say, what's your district? Six, right?"

Peter nodded slowly, and asked, "What about you? What's your name?"

"Tony Stark" he replied, "And three,"

Hm. Technology.

"Peter, Peter Parker,"

Tony smiled, and he held out a hand, "Nice to meet you, Peter,"

Peter stared at the hand warily, but managed to shake it anyways. Nothing happened, so he relaxed.

He can always run away when the man was asleep.

* * *

Peter never ended up running away. Against his halfhearted wishes, he fell asleep, sated on the squirrel that Tony taught him how to catch. For some odd reason, he trusted him.

He was always too trusting, and despite all the trouble it had caused him, this wasn't one of those times.

Tony was almost… parental towards Peter, the 13 year old tribute who was too young to even have his first girlfriend, let alone to be in the Hunger Games. The Capitol didn't care, though. It was supposedly entertaining for its inhabitants; watching terrified kids murder eachother.

It was too still, almost too still, and Tony was watching the premises; his keen, intelligent eyes flicking over every inch of their little camp.

Then, Peter whined softly, trembling within the throes of unconsciousness. He was struggling, letting out quiet little no's, 'Please don't hurt him' he pleaded.

Tony sat up, and kneeled beside Peter, lips thin, He pressed a soft hand on his shoulder, and shook him awake, fingers pressing awkwardly on the skin; like he didn't know what to do, "It's just a dream, shh, it's just a dream,"

Peter jerked awake, an unspoken cry on his lips. Tears blurred his vision, mortification settling deep in his gut like the food he gorged himself on in the Capitol.

He subsequently threw up after that. Peter managed to hold it inside this time; especially given the scarcity of food in the Games.

It was dark outside, stars barely glinting through the canopy of tree branches and leaves.

"Sorry," Peter murmured thickly, and Tony shook his head. He was barely visible, since they couldn't risk a campfire. 

"Don't be, I have them all the time," he said casually, and then he paused; and began almost hesitantly, "Do you want to talk about it?"

Peter almost shook his head vehemently, but then he realized… there was no point for secrecy anymore. He was going to die anyways. Might as well get this off his chest.

"Um… I live with my aunt and uncle," he began, voice hushed, "They, they are all I can remember. I'm pretty sure my parents died, but I'm not completely sure. They haven't told me," he shrugged helplessly, "I think they want to spare me the pain of knowing, but it was honestly worse that I didn't know,"

There was a potent silence, "Last year, we were desperately running short on food, and honestly, the entire district was. The Capitol wasn't happy with us, because, you know, and decreased the amount of resources we were allowed that year,"

That year, a desperate mother of a tribute had stolen an automobile, and driven it into one of the energy stations; causing a fire that created millions in damages.

The Capitol blamed the entirety of the district for that.

"My uncle- Ben stole some bread from a stand," his voice stuttered a bit, "And… a peacekeeper whipped him. In public. I was forced to watch,"

Another silence.

"Shit," Tony sounded horrified, but not surprised.

Peter merely hummed.

"I'm sorry," he said softly.

"Not your fault,"

"Yeah, I know… still sorry, kid,"

"I'm not that young," Peter said, humor in his voice. His eyes began to gleam in a way other than a dull darkness.

"Yes you are-"

"No… and even if I was, that would make you an old man… Mr. Stark,"

A beat passed, and Peter let out a giggle. Tony gasped, and pressed a hand on his chest, "I'm wounded, wounded I tell you!" he paused, "And don't call me Mr. Stark. It makes me sound like a pretentious asshole,"

"Sure thing," Peter smirked, "Mr. Stark,"

Tony groaned, and Peter knew he would call him that as many times as possible. They burst into laughter.

But then, Tony paused, pressing his finger to his mouth as a loud boom exploded through the arena.

There were eighteen cannons. Six tributes left.

They looked at eachother, the light atmosphere evaporated away as if it wasn't there at all.

Tony looked at Peter with knowing eyes, and he said softly, "No matter what happens, you will live. Understand me?"

Peter blinked, and his face screwed up, "Not if you don't as well,"

"No. Only one person can win, and that will be you, kid,"

Peter didn't reply. They both knew that if he could help it, Peter would die for Tony.

The problem was, that vice versa was also true. 

* * *

"Tony?" Peter asked, terrified.

The voices and footsteps drew closer.

"Nn, what?" he groaned loudly, eyes fluttering open. There was drool dripping down his cheek, and he rushed to wipe it. Before he can, Peter pressed a shaking hand on his mouth. He didn't care about the drool. Whatsoever.

"Shut up," he hissed, "There are people close by,"

Tony's eyes widened, and he gripped at Peter's wrist, pulling it off his mouth. He stood up, completely awake now.

Peter stood up too, subconsciously hiding behind Tony.

"Grab your knives," he murmured into his ear. Peter managed a tremulous nod, "We're gonna run. There's no way we can fight, I'm pretty sure they're careers,"

Peter pulled out his knives that stuck out of the log, and Tony frantically put everything surrounding them into his backpack. He pushed Peter in front of him with his hand.

"Run," he said urgently, and the careers let out a telltale, bloodthirsty screech. Footsteps began to crackle towards them, leaves breaking with each step.

"There they are!"

Peter didn't feel as terrified in his life as he did now. Because, now, he was not only worried for himself; he was also worried for Tony.

He wouldn't forgive himself if Tony died.

They sprinted in the opposite direction, breaths panting, adrenaline surged through them. Then, suddenly, there was another strange… crackle.

It was not like crunching leaves, not like anything Peter has heard before, and then there was a scream, right next to him. Peter's breath stuttered in his chest, and Tony stumbled. What happened next was almost in slow motion.

Tony had wide eyes, pallor unnaturally pale. He swayed, trying to stumble another couple of steps, then collapsed, and Peter gasped.

Before he can fall completely, Peter wrapped an arm around his waist, pulling Tony's arm to wrap around his neck.

"What happened?!" he asked desperately. There was another scream, female this time from behind him.

Tony blinked, looking at Peter with a pained expression and almost lethargic, then tilted his head, and there was a… a maple leaf sticking out of his neck. A purple liquid dripped out of the wound, blood beginning to bead.

Peter's lips trembled. He pulled it out, and a second later, Tony gasped, eyes blowing wide and alert. The leaf had an unusually long stem, and it was pointy, like a needle. The purple fluid dripped out of the point.

"Nerve agent," Tony breathed, and then he pulled Peter by his collar, and sprinted even faster.

There was more crackling noises, leaves shooting past them, swirling around them. 

Peter felt a poke on his neck, and then the world went underwater, his head lulling onto Tony's shoulder. The world cascaded into multiple colors, the yellow leaves glittering a blinding gold. 

Then, the poking sensation faded, leaving behind a faint sting. Peter blinked, shuffled forward a bit, and saw Tony's worried face, pulling him forward. Peter obediently continued to run.

This happened multiple times; having to pull leaves out of each other every couple of seconds, not really getting anywhere.

And the careers seemed to get closer and closer, and at one point, both of them had leaves in them; and they sluggishly pulled them out, collapsed onto the other.

A knife shot past them, and landed with a squelch inside Peter's leg. Peter just looked at it curiously, the colors beginning to swirl even more. He barely even felt it.

Tony let out a cry, desperately pulling Peter forward, but it was no use. They were both sluggish. Their limbs trembled, convulsing a bit onto the forest floor. Dirt smeared onto their faces.

Another leaf struck Tony, and he fell slack, slowly pushing Peter off to the side. With trembling fingers, he pulled out the last few leaves out of his body.

Peter screamed with agony when it brought the pain back full force. It felt like lava lancing through his very blood, sinking its claws throughout his nerves. His leg shook uncontrollably, jolting the knife against the ground.

It shifted the blade, a bit, and it caused a sob to escape Peter, blood dribbling out much faster onto the dirt. Tony just blinked, concerned, but ultimately apathetic; eyes glassy.

"Pete," he slurred, and Peter felt tears prickle at his eyes. They had nothing to do with the pain.

"Shh-" Peter attempted to soothe.

"Run," he whimpered desperately, "Fucking run. If… ya' don't, won't ever forgive…"

Peter shook his head vehemently, but then another leaf struck Tony, and his eyes fluttered shut, and he moaned, "R-run!"

Peter frantically looked over Tony, pulling out every leaf he could- he was practically covered in them- and then Peter felt the telltale prick.

His vision blurred, and he collapsed on top of Tony. The knife slid out, and blood pooled out of the gash even more rapidly. Peter felt increasingly faint. 

"S'rry," he slurred. Tony made a soft, devastated noise. His blood seeped into Tony's shirt. 

Peter blinked his eyes shut, and there was a rustle of fabric, the opening of the backpack zipper; and a soft clang of metal.

The crackling ceased, and there was only one career left. His legs were trembling, and he swayed onto a tree for a second, but he managed to walk right up to the both of them. Up close, you can see the circular wounds leaking crimson dotting his body.

"Heh," he whispered, bemused, "I thought I would get more fight out of you all,"

Peter quivered, and without warning, he was pushed on his side. Tony sat up a bit. It was shaky and he let out a whimper, but he managed it.

Peter didn't even have enough time to let out a protest when he was pushed back even more, and there was a familiar whine. Tony's hand was pushed out, covered in that red wire; not unlike a glove.

Perhaps gauntlet was a more apt description.

The career's eyes widened, and a blue beam shot out of Tony's hand. It landed on the career, and he gasped, before collapsing.

There was a circular burn mark. It glinted blue. A cannon sounded through the arena.

Brutal understanding settled within Peter's bones, an unintelligent noise escaping him. But then, the gauntlet shattered.

It exploded inwards, metal shards flying everywhere. Tony groaned, jerking backwards, smoke rising from his fingers.

He collapsed on his back, panting, and Peter's mind screamed.

Peter crawled through the dirt, breathing heavily, blood loss muddling his brain. Still, he managed to make it to Tony; and he let out a whimper at the sight.

His eyes were bulging out, tight breaths escaping him, chest heaving. His hands were desperately trying to grip onto Peter's forearm, pained noises escaping him.

Peter was breaking; heart snapping into two.

"No…" he whimpered, "No, no-"

Little spots of blood began seeping into Tony's shirt. Tony wheezed out a gurgle.

"No, Tony, please don't go- Tony, please-"

"Pete," he whispered, lips a vibrant red. He smiled reassuringly, and his teeth were covered in blood. 

"Tony!"

Tony blinked, then his head tilted onto the dirt, "Sorry," he murmured, before his eyes abruptly turned glassy. Dead. The intelligent gleam disappeared.

A cannon.

Peter screamed. Tony's promise rang in his mind, to live.

He didn't really want to anymore. 

* * *

Peter smiled tightly at the brightly colored crowd as he walked closer to President Snow. His ensemble was stiff, yet exactly how Peter wanted.

It was red and gold, with hints of blue. Like Tony's wire. Like Tony's makeshift weapon that scientists at Panem are scrambling to recreate.

His serpentine eyes crinkled. Peter's eyes hardened back. Understanding shot through the both of them.

"May I present to you, the victor of the 73rd annual Hunger Games!"

The crowd went wild. Peter barely stopped himself from collapsing into grief-filled sobs.

**Author's Note:**

> Soooo... sad noises?
> 
> Yeah. Had to include some Irondad because we know Tony would protect the shit out of Peter. But srsly, this made me cry :((
> 
> Hope y'all enjoyed :) I certainly enjoyed writing it!


End file.
